Tomorrow's Promises
by manic-intent
Summary: The Promises series. AU, Basch x Balthier. Where Balthier attempts to steal the Shard long before the Archadian War.
1. Going As Planned

Written for 31days  
October 30 prompt: you might as well live

Note: These are old fiction that I've just remembered to publish on fanfic net. If you want to read latest updates, see my ficjournal, at manicintentDOTlivejournalDOTcom

Going as planned

The 'Plan', insofar as it involved what Balthier had seen as the 'difficult part', had gone perfectly. Rappelling down the building to the marked window, sneaking through corridors with minimal guard, figuring out how to open the seal on the treasury door? So perfect – textbook thievery perfect. And the Goddess Magicite, more valuable than any crass precious gem, on its own plinth, amongst all that glittered.

After that, things started to go terribly wrong… firstly, _bloody firstly_, Princes and Princesses were _not_ meant to sneak off on the night of their _own_ engagement parties to find a quiet place to engage in scandalous activities, let alone think of using the bloody _treasury_ (some serious kink, there).

Secondly, calling for the guards was all very well, but acts of bravery regarding tackling pirates to the beautifully tiled ground was _not_. And Fran reacted very badly to any form of body contact that was any more than a touch (to say the least, kicks, snarls, and body slamming blue-blooded royalty against a chest). And _then_ the Princess had started shrieking her head off, and… Princess definitely shouldn't be as skilled (or more so) in the arts of unarmed combat than their royal paramours.

Still, making for the escape craft in the window – sans the Magicite – had proceeded mostly as planned, avoiding the predictable patrol paths and listening to guards run into their carefully set (but ultimately harmless, really) traps.

The third bloody thing that hadn't gone as planned – the tall, handsome blonde man with the scar just over his left eye, in black and gold dress armor (that should really have been as heavy as it looked), wielding a very sharp sword with an ease that spoke depressingly of expertise, standing right in front of their escape window, an enamel shield with a crest of a stylized desert wolf on the other arm. Looking as though he'd been waiting for them all along, no less.

As pirates went, Balthier was very much against actually killing people to get what he wanted – and besides, a gunshot would announce their location louder than Princesses screaming said heads off – and so he leveled his gun on the knight, hoping that would be sufficient intimidation, and jerked his head. "Move, if you please – we're rather in a hurry."

Fran wasn't so diplomatic – the Viera had notched and shot an arrow at the knight's unprotected head, just as Balthier spoke – but the shield came up with startling speed, and the shaft broke on the gleaming surface.

Thankfully, this was a palace, and as palaces went, there were the usual surprising number of ceremonial decorative weapons mounted on marble walls. Balthier grabbed a longsword with a gorgeous mother-of-pearl hand guard, and advanced warily, his gun held to his side. The knight looked amused, but stayed oddly silent and still – the shield came up to deflect the point of a stab, when Balthier lunged, but the pirate had anticipated this, having fought much of his earlier life in armor-heavy Archadia, dancing clear of the follow-up from the knight's blade, and aiming another stab that sheared over an intricately inlaid shoulder plate – the knight had dodged, but barely.

Balthier parried a disemboweling slice with the barrel of his gun, careful to watch footwork and position – he was unarmored, and faster, but the other man had skill, and time. Still, he supposed, logically, that a different escape strategy could be utilized – he drove the knight back, step by step, in a flurry of slices that glanced over the shield, until the window was free, though his arm was beginning to ache. And without looking back, he growled, "Fran. Go."

"Balthier…"

"_Go_."

There was a hiss that signified the Viera's intention to argue, then clanking footsteps informed Balthier that the other guards had arrived. A sound at the window and peripheral vision told him that Fran had made good her escape, on the hoverbike – he backed towards the window himself, firing a shot at the knight, careful to miss, knowing that if he jumped out now there was a decent chance that Fran could catch him…

And there was a dull impact in his shoulder, and surprising pain that made him drop his gun in shock. A crossbow bolt? A haft, and blue-painted feathers… as he made his acquaintance with the elaborate mosaic floor, he was aware of shouts and a blade, skidding away from his fingers.

--

He awoke with a blinding headache and a hand that wouldn't move, not to mention a burning pain high on his back. Balthier pried open bleary eyes to note that he was now dressed only in shirt and leather breeches, his weapons were gone, and his right wrist was chained to a bed rail. Bandages, tight across his chest and shoulder. The room smelled of disinfectant and soap. Infirmary. He tried to sit up, then hissed, as the pain worsened, and the ceiling spun. Poison, probably – he told himself, as he slumped onto clean covers. Funny. Was it humane policy to clean up someone before said person was executed? Stealing from the treasury, violence against royalty – that was a capital offence, last he checked, in most monarchial countries.

Voices, a little loud – he wanted to tell them to shut up, and go the hell away, but the nausea overtook his voice – choking and trying to force down bile, the pain from instinctively turning away from too-loud noise, the room again spun, this time into blessed nothing.

--

When he next awoke, the blonde knight was sitting next to his bed and reading a book. A sword was belted to his waist, but otherwise, he was dressed more casually – a crisp blue shirt, brown breeches. Balthier closed his eyes again, but his pretense was noted – there was a soft, surprisingly gentle, "Awake?"

"I trust that's rhetorical," Balthier replied in a rasp, breathing shallowly as his body reminded him in loud, insistent complaints exactly why he should have taken up a safe desk job instead of flamboyantly resorting to sky piracy.

"You're thirsty… I apologize." And he was being carefully helped up by solicitous hands into a half-sitting position, gritting his teeth against the moan of pain as the movement pulled against his wound, and a cold glass of water was pushed against his free hand. When his fingers fumbled, it was held up against his lips, again, and he drank, greedily, the water pure bliss within a parched throat. His vision seemed to improve – he was in a smallish hospital room, no window, one door, sterile and white, bandages and salves stacked together on a low table at the opposite end, his bed against one wall. The knight placed the empty glass on the table, and returned to his seat. "Hungry?"

Balthier was indeed hungry, but pride dictated that water would be the only request he would make today, from his captors. "In most countries, 'tis nurses who take duty with invalids."

"Ah," the knight smiled, a little wryly, "Well. You are not the most popular person in Dalmasca, at the moment, and I felt a guard was necessary."

"How touching. When's the execution?" Balthier asked, flatly. He felt he could grasp the method in this treatment – Fran had escaped, it seemed, and they likely thought he knew where she was. Which was true, but getting him to divulge said location would be an entirely separate issue altogether.

"That's still a question of debate," the knight said, evenly, refusing to take any offense at Balthier's unashamed rudeness. "After their Highnesses recovered from their shock, they were of the gracious opinion that you should be pardoned, seeing as it was a night of celebration, and they did not wish to mar their union with a death. However, several ministers feel otherwise, for deterrence's sake."

"And how long will this debate take?"

" 'Tis already been three days," the knight shrugged. "The council convenes only during customary hours."

"Good Gods." Balthier looked down at his shackled wrist. He had a pick in his boot that could make short work of it, but the boots were gone. "Slow death by boredom, then. By the way, why not simply put me in Nalbina? Saves on manpower."

"Someone who could break into the palace vault could just as easily break out of Nalbina, I should think," the knight said, dryly. "The place is not well-constructed. Dalmasca has a merciful King."

"One more question. How much longer must I listen to your mindless chatter?"

The knight chuckled, and inclined his head, going back to his book. Annoyed at the seemingly boundless patience of the other man, Balthier busied himself testing the shackle, gave up, and closed his eyes.

He refused to wake, when food came.

--

"How long has he not been eating?" Balthier heard a dimly recognizable female voice through the sleepy haze. Time seemed arrested into a stupor of dull images, ever since he had decided to hurry things along by simply refusing to eat – knowing that it was entirely possible, if he submissively ate and drank as his captors intended, that the discussion regarding his freedom would go on more or less indefinitely. And as a bird used to freedom, the idea of indefinite imprisonment was more terrible by far than death.

Female voice. Ah. The Princess. He tried to wake up, but couldn't manage the effort.

"Since he was here," a deep rumble – that was the knight.

"What? And he still breathes? A miracle." Incredulous, male, younger – the Prince.

"I put Enda pills in the water," the knight admitted. "But it will not tide him over for long. Truth to say, if your Highness had not insisted on healing his shoulder, it might not have sufficed for this long."

"He looks terrible." A blessedly cool, soft hand (female) brushed briefly over his brow. "And he's burning up. Rasler, what should we do? The council's still in deliberations. This is beyond cruelty, and Father says his hands are tied. This man can't be older than twenty."

"We have to get him out of here," Rasler – the Prince – said, decisively. "We must find his partner. Viera are rare, in Dalmasca – no doubt it should not be too difficult. If he was willing to sacrifice himself for her, no doubt she would still be trying to rescue him."

"We cannot take her here – she'll be arrested, as well," the Princess said, sounding gratifyingly agitated.

"Basch. Your family home… near the West Gate… do you trust your retainers?"

"Of course," Basch – the Knight – sounded mildly offended. "He should be safe there, 'tis true, and no one should think of searching it."

"Maybe Vossler," the Princess said, dryly, "But I am sure Rasler and I can convince him to turn a blind eye."

"The problem remains how we're supposed to get him out," Prince Rasler said, the voice beginning to echo, as though heard from beneath a well, and try as he might, Balthier lost consciousness.

--

When he next woke, the ground heaved in a nauseous rhythm, and smelled very strongly of bird. Fowl. Chocobo.

Balthier mumbled a protest, trying weakly to move, and his vision swam in a sway of a queasy tilt of dark cobblestones. Night? Restricted movement told him that he was swathed tightly in blankets – strong arms moved over his shoulder and waist, and he was shifted into a warm embrace that smelled vaguely familiar, against hard muscle. He coughed, frowning, but the rocking movement of riding forced him to concentrate his will simply on not throwing up, and eventually he weakened back into sleep.

--

He woke to the harsh glare of sunlight across his eyes and an uncomfortable prickle in his wrists, and panicked at the sight of translucent tubes stuck to both. He winced, as a knee-jerk attempt at yanking them out pulled the odd container of viscous, transparent fluid they had been connected to off the table next to the bed, sending it crashing onto the ground – the glass shattered.

Balthier backed into the corner of the bed, tearing off the tubes and the transparent patches they had been attached to, and realized that he felt far stronger than he had for quite a while; though his legs felt atrophied and numb. Fresh shirt, and breeches – both a little too large for him. A different room – this one smelled faintly of chamomile, and more strongly of lemon – it was luxuriously decorated, with sweeping landscape paintings, a walk-in wardrobe with gorgeous carved ashwood doors, plush carpets, one of which was just about to be ruined by viscous whatever-it-was fluid. A four-poster bed with feather pillows and a soft mattress, light sheets in respect of Rabanastre's temperature. Bookshelves thickly stacked with volumes and scrolls. A desk.

And windows – long windows with filmy curtains, which looked out into the vast blue – abruptly, his eyes stung at the sudden surge of wordless joy that welled within him, simply at the sight of freedom. Balthier felt as though he had been caged forever – he held hands out into the shaft of sunlight, studying the shadows across his knees.

Words from behind the single door to the room – Balthier flinched, and managed to roll, by pure force of will, onto his knees. He was in the midst of dragging himself out of the window – two stories, a short drop to what looked like bushes – when there was a curse behind him, and arms that felt subconsciously familiar were pulling him back. He twisted, snarling, then froze, as fingers gripped his chin in an unbreakable vise, and he was forced to look into the knight's eyes, narrowed in anger and fright. "If I had come up but a moment later…" a growl.

Balthier stared at him, unrepentant and calm – his eyes flickered over to the window again, in an unspoken promise. Left to himself, escape would be his only choice.

"You're still too weak."

Silence.

"We haven't found your partner, though the Viera of the city are being suspiciously evasive."

Silence.

"We've found your airship – the _Strahl_ – but as you arrived legitimately, the moogles are protecting your right to private property – though it's being watched by the guard."

Silence.

"We won't hurt you. You'll be free to go, once you've recovered."

He smirked, then. "When's the execution?"

The knight blinked, then growled. "We…"

"Pulled me out from one cell to another," Balthier interrupted, with a sharp smile. "But at least this one has windows and smells better. Thank you, I suppose."

"I said you would be free to go, once you have recovered." The faintest hint of exasperation. "Sooner, perhaps, if you can tell us where your partner is – she can come here and pick you up."

"I have only your word for the former – and as to the latter, do forgive me if I cannot trust you enough to place the life of my friend in your hands." Balthier said evenly. The knight was warm, and also smelled nice – lavender soap. He pushed at arms that circled his waist – they tightened a little, in warning, then the other man drew back, to sit on the edge of the bed watchfully.

"What would you do if left alone?"

Silence.

A muttered oath. "Would you force me to chain you to the bed?"

"One cage for another. Go ahead."

"Would you eat, at least?"

Balthier smiled.

A sigh. "And to think that the Prince felt the only reason why you weren't eating was because the infirmary was too much like a cell. You'll die, if you keep starving yourself – the solution you just smashed all over my floor can only do so much for so long."

"And I should live, because?"

Exasperation. "What sort of question is that?"

Balthier turned his gaze to the window, and up to the clouds. "What happens when you cage a wild bird, sir Knight?"

"You're not being caged."

Silence.

"Once you can walk, you can go. Your gear is in that chest." A point, at the wall. Irritably, "I suppose it's too much to ask for you to wait until you're actually healthy. Just don't break your neck climbing out of windows. And eat something, for Gods' sake. Agreed?"

Balthier considered this carefully. It was true that he wouldn't get far, if he tried to leave now – and would probably hinder Fran if he fainted on her after he met her at the agreed spot. Not to mention that, weakened as he was at the moment, it would be difficult to throw off pursuit, if he was followed. And he certainly would not be able to fight off any guards around his airship. Besides, instinct told him that this man, at least, did not seem to be the sort to resort to subterfuge. However, Fran's well-being was too important to hinge on mere instinct - still, he supposed that it would only help him, at this point, to regain some strength.

"I'll eat," he said, finally.

--

Regaining his strength was a slow process, and at the beginning he was restricted to soup and gruel, up until his stomach could actually handle solids again. There was a nurse, quiet and efficient and blessedly not the least curious about him nor talkative at all. He slept less as the days passed – sometimes he would wake to see the knight seated in the chair by the bed, pretending to read a book. Curious.

The next time he was actually conscious, he felt he could guess why – impulsively, he reached over and placed fingers on a warm arm, the sleeve rolled to elbows in the heat. The knight actually flinched, startled, then dropped his gaze to curled fingers. "Do you need something?"

"What are you reading?"

"Ah… a volume of prose, from one of Rabanastre's great living authors." The knight handed the book over – Balthier glanced cursorily through it. Something about life and meaning on the desert. Fascinating. He gave it back.

"What's your name?"

"I beg your pardon. I am Basch."

Balthier frowned – the name sounded familiar – then recalled almost forgotten lessons in a stuffy library, in a past life. "General Basch."

Basch inclined his head. "And your name is Balthier."

Balthier nodded, warily. Of course – Basch had heard Fran say so herself, in the palace. Thankfully, however, the name didn't seem to strike a chord – he proceeded with the next leg of his plan. "Please send my thanks to Prince Rasler and Princess Ashe."

"I will." Basch seemed slightly confused as to why he was suddenly so friendly – Balthier had said nary a word, since agreeing to eat.

Balthier looked down at his hands. "How long have I been… since the palace?"

"It's been about two months."

He grimaced. Fran would have panicked long ago, likely. "Ah. May I have pen and paper, please?"

Basch stared at him, for a moment, then nodded, and walked out of the room, leaving the book on the chair. Balthier looked out of the window, debating what to tell Fran – the whole situation still smelled too much like a trap – he was too jaded to believe in goodwill. On the other hand, she was very unlikely to leave just on his say so – better to assure her that he was well; take that much off her mind, at least.

When quill, inkbottle, a board and parchment arrived, he wrote, a little unsteadily, in their private code – that would appear to all others like a child's doggerel – and handed the paper to Basch. "Can you leave that with the moogle Avia in the aerodrome?"

"I'll see to it."

--

He was careful now to always seem friendly – but not too friendly, that would have been suspicious – whenever the knight came along, as though grateful for the company, willing to discuss any number of topics, but gratified that Basch seemed as intelligent as he was famed to be. Conversation, even when about the migratory habits of native creatures, was never boring.

A curt, coded message from Fran arrived via Avia one of the days – _Will find you, wait for me_. He had thought as much. The knight didn't ask, when he balled up the paper and handed it back. After that, Balthier was also careful to always touch the other man, brushing arm, shoulder, thigh, always seemingly accidentally or innocently, whenever talking to him – he could see the other man's response in his eyes, and the added tension whenever he leaned close.

Too easy, perhaps. And for a necessary step – well, at least Basch was handsome.

--

Then once, when his hand lingered a little too long than was politely necessary, on a knee, Basch caught his hand, and said, in a low, strained voice, "Don't think I don't know what you're trying to do, Balthier."

"What?"

"You don't have to feel that you need to buy something you already have," Basch said, his eyes steely.

"Call it insurance, then," Balthier said, and smiled – catlike, with no humor. Caught, and unashamed.

"It's not necessary." His hand was placed very firmly on the bed.

"But you want me." Balthier observed, simply. Basch stared at him, his eyes haunted – long enough for the sky pirate to actually feel a little sorry – then, abruptly, the knight rolled to his feet and stalked out of the room.

--

The next few days were utterly boring. He received no visitors outside of the silent nurse, and the books in the shelves were absolutely dry. On the other hand, he could walk for short bursts without stumbling, and his gear – including gun, and ammunition – were indeed in the unlocked chest.

Supporting himself against the wall, he managed to explore the wing of the villa he was in – it was large, populated with silent servants (or at least, silent around him), and felt almost unlived-in. A few wrong turns and he had no bloody idea where he was – worse, he could feel dizziness setting in. Knowing he likely wouldn't be able to find his way back to his room before he lost consciousness, Balthier opened the nearest door – a small study, with a large, comfortable chair, curled up, and fell asleep.

He was woken up by warm hands stroking his cheek and arm – he blinked, blearily, to see Basch seated on the thick carpet on the ground, next to the chair, and he stitched his brow together, as his back cramped. Ah, right. "Sorry. I got a little lost."

Basch nodded. His jaw was tight – a muscle in it twitched. "I… I thought you'd left."

"What, without my gun?" Balthier drawled.

Basch looked away, then down, at the carpet. "I'll help you back."

Balthier supposed it was now or never – he slipped off the chair, and into Basch's lap, straddling muscular thighs, tilting the firm jaw up, and brushing lips against surprisingly soft ones until they parted, invitingly. The frustrated little moan was gratifying and oddly arousing – he began to purr, as he rubbed himself against the other man.

The carpet was ruined.

--

Getting used to waking up, in a different, larger bed, with a mumbling warm body flush against his back, was surprisingly easier than he had thought, and far more pleasant than he could have imagined. Even the stickiness, and the scent of sex – were more than worth sleepy "Good morning"s and somewhat uncoordinated half-awake kisses. And the sex itself was good, getting better. Balthier wondered if he was simply getting himself from one problem into a wholly different but easily as complicated one.

At least he could walk, now. But it seemed that each day he got stronger, he busied himself finding excuses not to leave. There was still no word out on the pardon, apparently – his disappearance had seen to it – and his bounty was larger, now. Amusing, but inconvenient.

Still caged, but more dangerously, he told himself. This cage he actually _liked_ – the worst sort of cage.

--

One day he was cross-legged on the bed of 'his' room, cleaning his disassembled gun, uncaring of the damage to white sheets, when to his pleasant surprise Fran climbed in through the window. It was lucky that he hadn't been handling the powder magazine, at that point, really. She smiled, in sheer relief, to see him – then frowned, and raked eyes over his thinner frame. "You have been ill-used."

"The starvation was choice," he said, inclining his head, as he reassembled his weapon with practiced efficiency. "It got me out of the palace."

She sniffed. "And you smell of another Hume. The one we met, in the Palace, who stopped us from leaving."

"Well, it _is_ his house," Balthier said mildly, as he walked over to the chest, buckling on the holsters. Fran's arrival had just given him the impetus he needed.

It was a pity she was so perceptive, with a Viera's improved senses. "You know what I mean."

"Also choice." The belts in place, he put on the vest over the borrowed shirt, and picked up his own folded clothing, slinging his gun over his back.

"Oh?" Fran sounded suspicious. "Because if there was force, Balthier, I kill this Hume."

"Choice," he repeated. As much as choice went, in such situations – but it had been pleasant. "Let's go."

--

Fran notched an arrow to her bow instantly, when they saw Basch leaning against the polished side of the Strahl, in the hangar of the aerodrome – Balthier quickly forestalled her with a light touch on her elbow. "Go up first," he said, in a low voice – she stared at him, then skeptically, at Basch, and shrugged, thumbing the controls that lowered the ramp, and dragging the hoverbike up into it. "No heroics this time, I promise."

Balthier waited until Fran had entered the ship, before sticking his thumbs into his belt and looking at Basch – the other man was tense, though his face was carefully blank. Anger was written in the curled fingers at his elbows and impression Balthier got, of a coiled cat.

When it seemed that Basch was content to watch him with an accusing glare, Balthier spoke, his voice neutral. "Thank you for the hospitality, General Ronsenberg. Fare you well."

Basch bowed his head, made a low sound in his throat, and strode over, pulling him against him and claiming a rough kiss, that spoke to Balthier of fear, betrayal, anger, bewilderment, in how hands were curling tightly in his hair and on his hips, the tongue pushing into his mouth without permission. He forced himself not to respond, keeping his hands balled to either side, until at last Basch pulled away with an exhalation of frustration. "So it never meant anything, to you." Wounded.

"Was it supposed to?" he tilted his head.

"You never had to do something like that – I thought you _understood_," Basch snarled, shaking his head, whirling away, his fists tight at his flanks. "I thought you wanted… that you actually wanted…"

A relationship, Balthier had previously decided, with this man in particular, would be too needlessly complex for a sky pirate's life, and it seemed only affirmed now – even though it hurt to say what was necessary, to open this particular cage and live again the way he wanted to. "Did that matter? After all, _you_ wanted _me_. Now, if that is all, General…"

"No. No, it's not." And Balthier found himself pushed up against the side of his own ship, and kissed with surprising desperation – although he opened his mouth to thrusting tongues, he kept his hands passively at his sides, closing his eyes and waiting. At the soft, broken, "_Balthier_…" he nearly caved – he took a deep breath, however, and his lip quirked.

"Done?"

Fists curled in the collar of his borrowed shirt – Basch's eyes were wild, his voice rising. "It _never_ meant anything to you?"

"Let go of him," Fran suddenly said, very calmly – she had approached without any noise at all, and held the tip of a dagger to Basch's neck.

Balthier first reaction to the gleam of pointed metal was to freeze, then he relaxed, and said, blandly, "I wouldn't make any sudden moves, if I were you."

"Answer me." Basch snarled, ignoring the blade – rather foolishly, Balthier thought – Fran was still with controlled anger.

"She's very capable of killing you, General."

"I don't care."

Balthier looked carefully at Basch, then at the dagger, then at Fran, and sighed. "Fran. It's all right. Please." Fran narrowed her eyes, then with ill grace, sheathed the dagger, and went back up into the Strahl – though her posture said that she would certainly be listening for further trouble. "General." He supposed that Basch was owed some truth, at the least, for the hospitality.

"You know my name."

"And so I do. And I also know your rank, and your position as one of the pillars of Dalmasca, and how terribly inconvenient it would be, to get into a relationship with you, especially given my vocation in life. So I'll trouble you to let go of this shirt, and send my regards to the Prince and Princess."

"That's all?" Basch said, disbelievingly. "That's why you ran away?"

"I didn't run away," Balthier corrected, "I merely exercised a previously stated right to leave whenever I wished. Am I correct in assuming that right still stands?"

"Couldn't you have talked to me about this?"

"I am," Balthier pointed out mildly. "And your current reaction is exactly why I did not wish to talk to you about it. Also, what would your people say, to hear that their General has been consorting with sky pirates?"

"I've _never_ cared about that," Basch said, hotly.

"I'm surprised you were promoted so high, then," Balthier drawled. "Now, General, if you'll excuse me…"

"You've evaded my question, since the beginning," Basch growled.

Balthier pushed lightly at his shoulders, distracted, as his ship began to hum – Fran was getting impatient, and the engines were starting. "There's your answer then, for you, if you please."

The wrong thing to say – Basch visibly straightened, his eyes wide with desperate hope. "So it _did_ mean something."

"Either that or I'm not callous enough to be so easily able to break someone's heart," Balthier said flatly, feeling his own hammer in his chest.

Too late, however – Basch's sudden smile was so startlingly beautiful that Balthier forgot that he was supposed to make all due efforts to leave – lips brushed against his forehead. "So. When will you return?"

"What makes you think I'll return?" Balthier asked, cautiously, raising his voice to be heard over the increasing hum of the engines.

"Because you'll have to make reparation for theft."

"Theft?"

"Mm." Another gentle brush of lips, this time against his own – the answer self-evident. Theft of treasure, this time intangible yet no less valuable than the Shard. The sky pirate sighed – his resolve was crumbling.

"Ah. That. Perhaps after the furor over my disappearance has died down."

"And how long will that be?"

"How should I know?"

Basch nibbled at his lower lip, glancing away. "Where will you go?"

"Wherever suits my fancy," Balthier shrugged. At the frown, he amended, a little irritably, "But in a week or so I expect to be in Nabradia."

"Where in Nabradia?"

"Find me," Balthier smirked, when Basch groaned. "If you want your reparation. Otherwise, you can wait for me here, whenever I might come back."

Basch sighed, then tugged one of his rings off a finger, dropping it into one of the pouches on Balthier's hips, when the sky pirate made no move to accept. "Here." The wind from the engines, as the Strahl rose into the air, whipped blonde hair about his cheeks.

"Love tokens already?" Balthier asked, facetiously. Although it was illogical to seem so, the ring felt heavy.

Basch nuzzled his cheek. "A reminder."

"Oh?"

Basch stared at him, evenly. _That you belong to me now. As I to you._

Balthier looked up to the ceiling of the hangar, his lip quirking. "See you in Nabradia, General."

-fin-


	2. Hunting Shadows

Will not be updating this fic any further on fanfic net. The next installments are either very much NC17 or I've grown dissatisfied with their quality. As such if you are really curious, look up the Memories section of my ficjournal, at manicUNDERSCOREintentDOTlivejournalDOTcom

Hunting shadows

On his second visit to Nabudis' so-called Rogue's Sector, Basch was aware that he was being followed (prickling at the back of his neck; instinct). The press of bodies, however (unwashed stench, poverty, vice, base freedoms), as well as his lack of knowledge of the layout of the Sector made actually catching a glimpse of the culprit difficult, let alone accosting him or her.

He wanted to believe that whoever it was, it was tied to the reason he was here in the vice quarter of Nabudis in the first place; this proverbial den of iniquity, of beggars, thieves, hollow-eyed street urchins, whores and mercenaries – here, he stood out like a sore thumb, despite having taken pains to wear his plainest clothing (form-fitting brown collared shirt, sleeves folded to elbows, gray cotton breeches, a plain sword buckled at his hip to a red leather baldric). Or because of it – nothing stood out more than someone rather obviously trying his best not to stand out, after all, and Basch was indeed here to attract attention.

Four days spent discreetly observing the Nabudis aerodrome for a familiar orange-and-silver airship as well as inquiries around the moogle mechanics informed him that the _Strahl_, although not docked at the aerodrome, was indeed in Nabudis. It seemed there was another aerodrome, hidden on the outskirts of the capital proper; an open secret ignored by authorities – a port for pirates and associated less savory sort, which paid a higher premium for moogle mechanics, thus encouraging them to take shifts at the 'official' port as well as rotations at the 'unofficial' one.

Unfortunately, the moogle in question who had told him this (a green-jacketed and hatted youth with a tendency to wave a spanner about to punctuate his words and answered to the name Nono) refused to say any more. Bribes and Basch's best attempts at persuasion had only wheedled out the further information that Nono had been asked to tell any 'yellow-furred knight from Dalmasca asking after the _Strahl_' that it was in Nabudis' unofficial aerodrome, but nothing else.

A game – he disliked games. Still, if it amused the sky pirate, Basch supposed that he could, for now, marshal his patience. Discussions with Rasler and various friends in Nabudis, as well as a close perusal of the available city maps informed him of the most likely area that a sky pirate could be found in, given the strictly policed city; in the Rogue's Sector, neither status nor law was recognized. Despite, Rasler said, somewhat regretfully, his father's best efforts, the Rogue's Sector brought in the highest amount of Nabudis foreign exchange, and its excision, despite likely raising the moral standard of the city several rungs, would also just as likely destroy Nabradia's economy.

Four days spent embroiled in pre-war diplomatic councils, and he finally had further free days to actually attempt to explore the Rogue's Sector – keeping a close watch on his purse all the while, of course. Try as he might, however, enquiries had merely hit dead ends; no one professed to know the name Bunansa or Balthier, despite the show of coin. Either Balthier had bought their silence (which seemed unlikely, given the number of diverse people he had asked) or there was a rusted thieves' honor about the taverns and information merchants that involved their not selling out their fellow scoundrels to armed Knights.

He turned a corner in the bazaar, then quickly down an alley (that reeked of refuse and waste). Smirking as he heard a stifled oath, behind him, he turned another alley, then again, around a block, thinking it would circle back and allow him a glimpse of his pursuer. In the dim light, however, of the underground Rogue's Sector, and the rather misleadingly curved pathways, he realized with some consternation, after a while, that he appeared to have misjudged the immediate layout of his surroundings.

Basch sighed to himself, turned, and began to retrace his steps, only for four men to seemingly melt out of the narrow doorways of the buildings that sandwiched the alley, cudgels in hand. Cold eyes, and dispassionate masks; all men sported tell-tale signs of a street thug's life – pugilist's swollen ears, scars, impressive brawn, and discolored clothing; their stance as they faced him spoke of training in the gutters rather than in proper techniques. He put his hand on the hilt of his sword. "I seek no trouble."

"'ear that, boys? The toff seeks nae trouble," the leader, a gaunt man, all corded muscle, drawled. Behind him, the men laughed – chuffed grunts of menace. "Aye, sad t'say, trouble's found ye. Ye've 'ad the poor luck o' steppin' onto our turf, good sir, an we mislikes that."

"Step aside, and I will leave," Basch drew his sword, gesturing with it. "Engage me and it will be with regret that I end your lives."

"Fancy words, aye?" The man smirked. "Boys."

The two men closest to him started forward. Basch relaxed his mind into the automatic technicalities of footwork and guard, thankful that the narrow street would make it difficult for him to be flanked. He dodged clear, when the nearest brute swiped heavily at him with a studded club; parried the follow-through from his interchangeable partner, flicked his blade around on the recovering arc and lay open the first thug's arm, then leaped back, sword back at ready. The injured one roared in pain and fury, lumbering forward, swinging his club madly. Easy enough, to feint to the side, duck the heavy club that would have smashed his skull against the grimy wall, had it connected, twist his blade in his hands, the palm of his free hand against the pommel, and drive the hilt up into the man's heart, just enough to kill, precision enough not to catch in the ribcage, then kick the gargling body off his sword.

The coppery stench of blood, as it splashed his arms and shirt – he flicked gore off his blade, as he straightened back into his stance, and inclined his head at the dead man's stunned companions.

"Ye… ye _killed_ Big Cobs!" the gaunt man pointed a shaky finger at the corpse on the ground (spreading blood, and filth – his boots would be ruined).

"I gave fair warning," Basch pointed out, turning his narrowed-eyed stare to the other man who had attacked him – the thug took a step back, involuntarily.

The man sucked in a breath, then seemed to relax, suddenly, and smirk. "Ye'll regret that, _v'raya._ We be first intendin' t'give ye a gentle tap on the head, take yer purse, an' simply leave ye out t'be found in the Sector… but now, ye'll have t'die, an' slow."

An uncomfortable feeling from between his shoulder blades. Basch risked a look over his shoulder.

A bangaa bared teeth at him, a gun leveled in his direction. An open door, set unobtrusively in what he had thought was just a wall, to his right, told him exactly how he had been snuck up on.

"Now, drop yer blade."

Basch hesitated. On one hand, it made no logical sense – he had already been told he would be more or less tortured to death, were he to give in; what would being shot in the back do? And if he whirled and attacked, it was possible that the bangaa would miss (and better yet, accidentally shoot the thin man). On the other hand, there was the possibility, however small, of escape, if he were to evade death now…

Then a voice rumbled, "That's quite enough, Azlo."

Azlo turned – a dark-skinned, bald man with two blades across his back pushed past him, his gaze moving from Basch to the body, then to the bangaa. "This man is under my protection."

"Protectin' tourists now, Reddas?" Azlo sneered. "He walks into me ground, he pays the price."

"See it through and I have this feeling that you'll be paying in return, and high," the bald man said mildly, looking down pointedly at the body.

"Ye have nae say 'ere on the Upper, Reddas," Azlo growled. "An' 'e's wronged me fair an'…" the rest of his words were cut off in a yelp, as there was a gunshot, the bullet striking the ground inches from his foot, a chip of rock glancing free. "_Z'arrek!_"

Basch frowned, squinting, but could make out nothing in the dim light. Reddas, however, smirked behind his shoulder. "I'll be telling you something about this 'tourist', Azlo. He belongs to Sniper."

He blinked, just as Azlo paled; the other men also looked around hurriedly. "_W-what_? But he wears no mark!"

"Not yet," Reddas said, amiably. "So we'll be overlooking this little incident for now, eh?"

"Yes. Uh. Tell Sniper m'sorry, aye?" Azlo had turned quickly from brash to servile – his eyes flickered from shadow to shadow with nervous fright.

"I'll think about it," Reddas said, crooking his fingers at Basch. "You come along now. A merry chase you led me around the Dimmed Sector."

--

When they were nearly at the main street, Balthier stepped out of one of the darkened doorways, his gun at his back, falling into step with all the nonchalance in the world. "Thanks, Reddas."

"Hah! No problem there. I've been wanting to give Azlo some grief for a while now. Man thinks just because he owns five streets in the Rogue Sector, he owns Nabudis." Reddas snorted. "I got other business about, here. See you after." A sharp glance at Basch, and he added, "If you'll be bringing him with you to Dark, I'll appreciate it if you make him understand how it's supposed to be a secret, eh?"

Balthier rolled his eyes. Reddas chuckled, nodded absently to Basch, and stalked away, into the crowd. Alone with Balthier, the Knight suddenly couldn't think of a thing to say – he flushed slightly, as the pirate grinned at his tongue-tied silence, and forced his mouth to work. "You… you look well."

"As do you, though you have a remarkable lack of common sense, walking about the Sector by yourself, and off the street, at that."

"I could have killed…"

"And then never made it back to the street alive, I warrant," Balthier shrugged. "No matter. Azlo would put the word out that you're mine, and you likely won't be harassed any further."

He ducked his head at the warmth suffusing his neck and chest at the casual statement, oddly pleased. Balthier frowned at the bloody blade and shirt, then sniffed. "I'll best get you to Dark, where you can get changed."

--

The entrance to the Dark Sector was an unnoticeable curtain set behind a pillar in what appeared on first glance to be a potter's shop. Lamps barely illuminated a flight of steep, winding stairs, then to what appeared to be yet another bazaar, this one manned by rows of shifty-eyed bangaa and humans, hawking semi-legal and rare items from various countries – he recognized scent-weed from Archadia, charger barding from Dalmasca, rainbow eggs set in a row, even a shop with demon's flasks. Balthier nodded occasionally when people greeted him, leading him quickly past the bazaar to quieter streets. A residential area, Basch decided, populated with pointedly incurious denizens.

An alley, and a closed door. Balthier picked keys from his breeches and unlocked it. Once inside, Basch felt he had, given the month he had waited and the week he had taken to actually find the man who had been occupying his thoughts since their parting, endured enough, and pushed him against the wall, claiming lips with brutal ardor. The sky pirate moaned, rubbing against him, then smirked when they broke, panting, prodding his arm. "You smell of blood."

Distracted by grinding hips, Basch muttered, "If you have… washing facilities…"

Balthier nodded. "Piped shower. Fran's insistence." Lips crept up his neck, to his ear; and purred, "Need assistance?"

Basch's lip quirked. "Since I am unfamiliar with your home…"

"Then I will endeavor to be of as much… help… as possible, then."

--

Sleepy and half-curled on one of the over-stuffed couches in the living room of the narrow house with a lapful of mostly naked pirate, Basch was about to doze off, when Balthier began to wriggle, ostensibly to get more comfortable. The knight managed to endure about half a minute of judicious shifting, before he cleared his throat and wrapped his arms around a warm waist; heat, from an open, thin shirt, flesh against flesh – he wore only his breeches, and Balthier, only the shirt. "Stop."

"Tired already?" Balthier's smile was playfully mocking.

"I'm not as young as you are," Basch retorted. He had been a little stunned to discover, a month ago in Rabanastre, that Balthier was indeed fourteen years younger than he, and barely out of adolescence. "And I had to do most of the work."

"Hn." Balthier pursed his lips into a pout (though he would likely deny this if told, Basch sensed), but settled, a boneless, warm blanket that was a little too disturbingly light. Basch stroked fingers up from the waist to ribs, felt how they seemed a little too close to the skin, and sighed. His fingers were instantly pushed down, to the belly. "Tickles." The pirate shifted again, to pillow his head on a shoulder; warm air, regular against his chin.

Basch idly traced fingers down to flanks, gentle caresses. "Precisely when were you aware that I was in Nabudis?"

"When the entire, dreadfully shiny, noisy and semi-clad Dalmasca entourage arrived, of course. What with the parades in Princess Ashe's honor. A little difficult _not_ to notice."

"And it did not occur to you to…"

"The terms, I recall, was that if you wanted your reparation, you were to _find_ me," Balthier reminded him, with a fleeting, mischievous grin. "It took you remarkably longer than I thought to start bumbling around the Rogue's Sector."

"I _am_ here technically on business," Basch observed, mildly, a little stung. "You could have simply come to see me, at the embassy."

"I do believe I am still a wanted man," the sky pirate said, rubbing his cheek against warm skin, absently. "Besides, it was more amusing this way. Even if you did manage to blunder into trouble."

He ignored that. "Do you normally live here?"

"I normally 'live' on the _Strahl_. You've seen her. Pretty thing."

"I meant…"

"Nabudis is but one of many ports of call. Reddas is agreeable enough to have someone maintain this place for us, 'tis all." Dryly, "You cannot truly tell, but he is technically the lord of the Dark Sector."

"Strangely named."

"Any scoundrel knows Nabudis is divided into the Blue, the Dimmed and the Dark. Light, half-light, night."

"I wouldn't have known had…"

"Ah, but someone like you, Basch… you belong only in the Blue." Balthier was doing something distracting with lips and tongue that made it difficult for Basch to focus on the semi-facetious assertion.

"Balthier." He gently lifted the sky pirate's chin. "Does that concern you?"

Balthier's eyes flickered away tellingly for a brief moment, before snapping back, features melting into lazy insouciance. "No."

Basch sighed, and rolled, such that he pinned the younger man down, settling his weight carefully on elbows. "Why does it concern you?"

"We're from totally different stratums of society," Balthier murmured, looking away.

"I was born a commoner."

"Curious. I was noble-born." Balthier smirked.

"I do not speak in jest."

"Neither do I. It doesn't change what we've both become."

"Did it matter in the first place?"

"It matters to me what you may see this," Balthier said, stubbornly. "I was from those circles, I know. Some of my peers, they liked to keep…" _mistresses, or doxies, really, among the low-born or fallen, below the working class; cheaper than mistresses, easier to silence and buy._

Basch took a deep breath, for patience. "You're not my…"

"Pretty girl on your arm, coming off that royal airship."

_Ah._ "Balthier… Lady Sessa is the sister of my closest friend, Vossler."

Balthier's expression didn't change – his eyes flickered up to the ceiling. "Rich?"

"She is like a sister to me." Basch elaborated.

"Hn. Intelligent?"

"Balthier…" Another deep breath. "When I gave you that ring…"

His smile was sharp. "The neighbor to the left is one Miss Vaya. Pretty little trinkets she has, the most gorgeous necklaces. Three different men, I think. Clever girl."

"You're not my… I never saw it as… the ring was…" Basch bowed his head, until his tongue and temper were back under his control. Quietly, "Mark me."

"What?" Balthier blinked, startled, at the apparent non sequitur.

"Is it a tattoo, or a scar? I care not. That man… Azlo… said he did not see a… mark, that would say I was yours. I want to wear that."

Balthier stared at him, then began to chuckle, wryly, helplessly. "'Tis nothing so barbaric as a tattoo or a scar. For you, it'll be a necklace, or a bracelet. Reddas has all his… friends… who live in Dark that do the occasional bit of work for him identify themselves by facile nicknames and symbols. Those that belong to them can get past certain areas in Dark, 'tis all, if they wear such marks."

"Give me one, then." A frown. "What do you mean, 'for you'?"

"A friend would wear the mark around the left wrist… family, around the right; a servant, at the belt, a lover… at the neck." Balthier poked him in the chest. "But I am not sure."

"Neck." He lowered his head, and dragged his tongue along the column of Balthier's. "And if I should so see any other wearing this mark of yours, about their necks…"

"For someone who can be so gentle, you can be incredibly violent," the sky pirate muttered, though he seemed to relax.

"So. Where I belong, Balthier… is wherever you may be." A kiss, on flesh.

"Do you knights practice those sorts of lines before a mirror?" Mocking, but playful, again. A little flattered.

"And if I could, Balthier, I would give you all you wanted under Heaven, were you willing to stay only by my side."

"That sounded scripted."

A smirk, against his hip. "Women like such words, so Vossler has told me. To say one wishes to drape them in velvet as smooth and as dark as night, in silk as gossamer pale as the dawn, in satin as rich as the sunset; to put diamonds like stars in their hair; moonlight strands of pearls about their necks. To dress promises in pretty words; for aught else will they believe."

"You're trying… aah… now that's just insulting. I'm not a…"

"It seems a little womanish to worry so about trivialities."

"Aah… 'tis not… uhm…"

"Mm."

--

The Viera wrinkled their noses when Fran led them into the living room. Close inspection, despite the dimmed light, informed her as to the cause of the scent about the vicinity. She peered over the couch, and saw her Hume partner, limbs tangled with another male Hume who looked vaguely familiar. Both were in varying stages of undress, and sound asleep.

Ah, right. Rabanastre. At the sight of a silver chain around the larger Hume's neck, which led to a gleam of metal under Balthier's hair, Fran carefully pushed brown strands away, then smiled, faintly. A flat, rectangular pendant, etched with a hawk's wing. _About time._

She straightened, turning back to the two Viera friends she had in Nabudis. "Come. We go to the Harvest tavern for drinks, instead."

"I would never have thought that you of all Viera could tolerate a Hume partner, Fran," Nalra murmured, as Fran ushered them out and closed the door. "They stink so, and are always in heat."

"They can be entertaining," Fran shrugged, making a mental note to drop subtle comments about sulking since observing public parades, blond male Humes and silver pendants later, perhaps when Balthier was drinking something hot.

-fin-


End file.
